Wednesday, November 02, 2005

Chapter 12.

Rodger lumbered over to the tree. At a glance he could tell the tree was ill. A dark scar scorched down the north side and Rodger could follow the trail of mushrooms that dug into the soft, waterlogged rot until they disappeared within the leaves.

Rodger took a testing smell at the tree’s base – he was correct - rot. He moved around to the other side. A tree could survive even half rotted through, but the same musty damp smell hung there as well. He took a small bite where the wood looked whole. His teeth slid easily, too easily, through the bark and greenwood underneath. The flavor was good, strong. Beavers like the flavor of rotted wood. They call such wood ripe. Its not good for building, but the bark makes good gnawing and good winter food.

Rodger looked around at his situation. He was atop a small hill, overlooking his stream to the north.

He could also see what brought shade to the flowers. The north side of the tree was scarred, preventing growth. As a result, the tree had to spread branches southwards, leaning over as it did so. But clearly this was not working. A winter’s storm would blow the tree over. Rodger could even see where the tree would snap, about halfway up the trunk at a narrow point inhabited by three mushrooms.

Rodger looked down again at the river, he could almost make out where the river swelled before meeting his damn. It was always time to consider the next mating season, and after that came kits, the litter of 4 he’d just fathered were already out of the house, busy making their own homes along other rivers. A new batch required new food.

Rodger looked up at the leaves, down a bit to find the mushrooms. He noted one, halfway up on the tree, red underbelly, glossy sheen, sweet smell. Poison.

Ooooo. I'm working on the last sections now and the revenge bit might get tough. Oh well, kids get enough violence these days. At least I've kept the birds and the bees half out of the children's story.